


Siberian

by ru17



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Confinement, Kidnapping, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, dark bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24418846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ru17/pseuds/ru17
Summary: He hasn’t gotten a single thing accomplished since the boy moved in.There’s work to be done. But throughout the day, Bucky can’t help but look up and see the boy there, on the bed, and he gets to wanting Peter so badly that his work really doesn’t matter very much at all.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker
Comments: 11
Kudos: 205





	Siberian

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leopardtail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leopardtail/gifts).



He hasn’t gotten a single thing accomplished since the boy moved in.

There’s work to be done. There’s always more work to be done. The problem is that his office is directly across the hall from the master bedroom, his desk placed in just the right spot that he can see the bed. It was an intentional move on his part, of course. But throughout the day, Bucky can’t help but look up and see the boy there, on the bed, and he gets to wanting Peter so badly that his work really doesn’t matter very much at all.

It doesn’t have to be much. Just the sight of the boy’s back, curled up, facing away. Bucky gives in – as he always does, eventually – and abandons his work and his desk and his entire office to cross the hall, gaze riveted to that endlessly, distractingly beautiful form.

Peter’s shoulders tense when he hears him come close. They’re not used to each other yet. The boy pulls the blankets around himself. A tight little cocoon, just waiting to hatch into a butterfly.

Bucky lingers. Eventually, Peter’s doe eyes open and stare up at him. “What do you want?” he asks, his voice quiet. Weathered with disuse. He hasn’t spoken much since he moved in. Adverse circumstances have that effect, Bucky’s found.

He doesn’t touch. He wants to, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits on the chair he left at Peter’s bedside specifically for that purpose and tries his best at a warm smile. “I just wanted to see you.”

If Peter’s surprised to hear him say so, he doesn’t show it. In fact, Bucky can’t help but notice that, apart from wrapping the blankets around himself a little tighter, Peter hardly has any reaction to him at all.

—

Peter’s quiet.

Bucky doesn’t mind, really. He’s used to it. Before the boy moved in, everything was always quiet, and had been that way for some time. Part of him is still hopeful that Peter will liven up a little as time passes, as they get accustomed to each other.

But if he doesn’t, well. It’s enough to have Peter here with him, living in his home, even if the boy hardly ever says a word to him.

—

There are two times a day when Peter is even remotely vocal.

The first is expected. It’d be shocking if the boy _wasn’t_ vocal about it. Bucky knew he would be from the moment they met – Peter has that kind of energetic way about him.

It’s Bucky’s favorite sound in the entire world, those noises. Peter tries to keep them in. He’ll bite his lower lip bloody with the effort, jaw clenched as he tries to stifle the moans and whimpers. Bucky always kisses it better, it kills him to see the hurt. Peter will lay underneath him as they make love, eyes clenched tightly shut to stem the flow of tears he’s so desperate to hide, his fingernails digging painful crescent moon gouges into his palms.

Bucky always takes his hands – not to restrain him, God, no – but to coax those fists open, kiss the wounded flesh better, interlace their fingers so that, at least, if Peter needs to dig his fingernails into anything, it’s Bucky’s own skin.

But he doesn’t mind. He just keeps kissing him, sometimes slow, sometimes desperate. “I love you,” he’ll say, over and over, worshipping the body underneath him like the work of art it is. “I love you, Peter. I love you so goddamn much.”

Peter doesn’t say it back, not once.

But that’s okay. It’s enough for him to kiss away the tears flowing down the boy’s cheeks, reveling in how that small, precious body trembles underneath him, how it clenches down on his cock, how Peter’s hands entangle viciously with his own.

It’s enough.

—

The second is unexpected.

The second follows the first, but only at nighttime. Only as Bucky crawls into bed beside his lover, as he shuffles in close and takes Peter into his arms. Maybe Bucky _should have_ expected the tears, but he didn’t. They still surprise him every time.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, spooning Peter tightly from behind. “You’re alright, baby. Shh.”

Peter’s hiccupping sobs rattle both their chests. Bucky kisses a line from the crown of the boy’s head down his neck, over his bare shoulder, down his arm, back up and then down the naked skin of his back, kissing everywhere. His arms are vices around Peter’s thin frame, holding them both together as the boy shakes like an old-fashioned alarm clock.

It takes hours, every single night. But Bucky holds Peter until he falls asleep.

Knowing the boy is in pain breaks his heart. But the aftermath – the aftermath is Bucky’s favorite part of the day. It’s the thing he wakes up thinking about each morning - when Peter is worn out and warm in his arms, pliant from sleep. It’s the only part of the day when he is truly, fully relaxed. The sex is amazing, almost everything he ever dreamed of, but this trumps even that, this intimacy, the stillness, the peace and quiet. It’s the only time of the day when Bucky can truly breathe.

It’s not perfect. But it’s enough for him. It’s enough.

—

Until it isn’t.

—

It starts slow.

Almost too slow to notice. One day Peter’s plate is mostly empty. A few weeks later, it’s half empty, at best. And some time after that, the plates look like Peter hasn’t even touched them at all.

Bucky starts arranging the boy’s food in particular ways to confirm his horrid suspicions. Each day, Peter’s meals are, in fact, going uneaten.

“I need you to eat,” Bucky pleads, sitting at the boy’s bedside, his outstretched hands offering a plate of Peter’s favorite foods – a chicken and bacon sandwich on thick Texas-sliced bread, a cup of blueberry yogurt, two of those little sweet oranges you can only buy at Christmas time. Bucky had gone all the way to Chinatown just to get them. “It doesn’t have to be much, baby. Just a little. You need food.”

Peter only stares. His silence, before, felt like a necessary consequence of their current arrangement.

Now it feels deliberate. Hurtful. Peter stares, his big eyes painfully dark, but not vacant. He’s looking right at Bucky. He could eat, if he chose to. He could speak, could end this terrible silence. He _could._

But he doesn’t.

—

He watches Peter’s face raptly as he lays the boy flat on his back, lifting one of his legs to press slicked fingers against his rim. This is usually the part when the noises start, and Bucky’s desperate to hear them. It’s been days – weeks? Maybe even a month at this point – of dreaded, awful silence. He needs it stop.

He pushes in too fast and too hard, just to be sure there’ll be some reaction.

When none comes, this time, it’s Bucky who clenches his eyes shut, burrowing his face in Peter’s shoulder to hide the tears.

—

Peter doesn’t make a sound as Bucky slides into the bed behind him. He doesn’t tense as Bucky reaches out and pulls them together, and it’s insane, almost to a comical level, how much Bucky misses the sight of that, despite how badly he never wanted Peter to feel afraid.

He’d take fear and hatred over this spiteful indifference any day.

The boy is like a doll in his arms. Warmer, sure. But just as lifeless. Bucky arranges Peter the way he likes, settles him against his chest, pillowing the boy’s head in the crook of his arm.

“I’m thinking of going into town tomorrow,” he whispers into the darkness. “Nothing important, just some errands. Little ones.” His arms tighten around Peter, heart thundering in his chest. “Do you want to come with me?”

If anything could make Peter speak to him, it would be this.

But the boy is silent.

Fear and ice-cold rage chills him to the very marrow of his bones.

Silent, starving and stoic, Peter’s as good as dead, like this.

They both are.

—

He watches from his desk, through both open doors and across the hall, where Peter lays.

The sharp juts of his shoulders, ribs and hips are as painful to look at as they are to touch. Peter doesn’t even bother covering himself with the blanket anymore, though Bucky knows how cold he normally gets. Even more so, now, with all that missing insulation.

The boy used to be so shy of his nakedness.

Bucky never thought he’d miss that.

His work remains piled up and unfinished in front of him. There is no concentrating on anything that isn’t Peter, whether either of them likes it or not. It’s been that way since the day they met, and it’s not stopping anytime soon.

No matter how far Peter intends to take this.

Maybe - Bucky considers, somewhat desperately – maybe the next time he goes to buy groceries, he’ll leave the window cracked in the bedroom. A stupid risk, sure. But if it’s the thing Peter needs to overcome this, Bucky will risk that, and a hell of a lot more.

And maybe. Maybe, if it doesn’t work, maybe he can up the stakes. Maybe, that same night, he’ll unhook Peter’s chain from the footboard of the bed before they go to sleep. Or even take the chain off altogether.

It may be enough. But Bucky hesitates, because he doesn’t know which would be worse – to wake and find Peter gone, to lose this, this boy he loves, this warmth and intimacy - or to find him still lying there, still and silent in his arms, spiting him and breaking his heart.


End file.
